


Want to Spend my Life in a Cheap Motel Room

by desticockles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Happy Ending, Human Castiel, I'm Bad At Tagging, Journalist Castiel, M/M, Some Humor, attempted humor anyway, convict Dean, kinda' angsty, semi-au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1215784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desticockles/pseuds/desticockles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak is a journalist assigned to the story of an inmate who is on death row. His name is Dean Winchester; a distractingly beautiful man imprisoned for the murder of six people - all of whom Dean insists were monsters. The moment Castiel walks into that room he is lost. Completely and utterly lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Once Upon a Time in a Prison in Pontiac...

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from "Cheap Motel Room" by Margot and the Nuclear So and So's

“I’m assigning you to the Winchester story.”

Castiel frowns up at his boss, Zachariah, who sits with his hands steepled upon his massive mahogany desk.

“The murderer?” Castiel asks quietly, hoping to conceal his predispositions on the subject. Murder cases have never been his favorite. Too much darkness and hate in those stories.

“Yes, _the murderer._ Is that going to be a problem?” Zachariah asks, though his tone makes it clear there is no question to be answered. The only answer is no.

“No, sir.”

∆•∆•∆•∆

The wardens in this prison are surly, intimidating men, and each of them seem to have a reason to hate Castiel before he’s even said a word to them. He assumes they have a problem with journalists in general - because everyone seems to - but that doesn’t make their harsh glares any less hurtful.

The loud thud and click of the first door makes Castiel jump slightly, to which one of the wardens snickers. He resists the urge to punch the man for his rude behavior and clicks his pen mindlessly, which the warden to his right clearly doesn’t like, but Castiel could care less what the guy thinks.

A man in a pressed blue uniform steps up to the second door, keying in a five digit code before he turns around to face Castiel head on. The man opens his mouth to speak and Castiel shakes his head to stop him.

“I already know how this works.”

“I am required to tell y-”

“I don’t care.” Castiel says, flashing the man a quick, humorless smile - one he knows most people find to be intimidating. The man seems slightly taken aback, and after narrowing his eyes at Castiel and pulling his mouth into a deep frown, he grumbles something under his breath and yanks the door open with a roll of his dark eyes.

The door swings open slowly, inch by inch revealing a corner of the dim grey room, then a metal table with four chairs and a man - Dean Winchester, Castiel remembers - clad in bright orange, his head pressed against his folded arms, wrists shackled and chained to the floor and table. Castiel enters the room carefully, quietly, and pulls out one of the collapsable metal chairs from where it is pushed in to the table. An unpleasant scraping sound fills the room, causing Dean to jerk his head up to look Castiel in the eyes.

Green.

Green is all Castiel can see; so bright and so pure, the color of a life of hardship and loss speckled with a golden warmth of heart. Dean flashes Castiel a twinkling smile and his heart stutters in his chest. He tells himself that the torrent of butterflies in his stomach are caused by fear, but he can’t deny that it feels different. And when Dean’s eyes flick down to Castiel’s feet and slowly work their way back up to meet his eyes, Castiel doesn’t even bother to question the fact that the sweat forming on his palms is something much more sinister than apprehension.

“Mr. Winchester,” Castiel greets lowly, slowly setting himself in the chair across from Dean - who, he reminds himself, is a _murderer_.

“Call me Dean.”

“Dean,” Castiel corrects himself, earning a soft smile from Dean.

“You’re here to write all about how horrible I am, aren’t you?” Dean asks, and though his tone is joking Castiel can see in his eyes there is a sparkle of hurt; a crack in his uncaring mask.

“No. Just to write about _you_.”

“Yeah, alright,” Dean says with a smirk. He leans forward, his forearms pressed against the cool metal, one hand wrapped around his other fist. “So, whatcha wanna’ talk about first?”

“I prefer you start where you see fit,” Castiel answers, flipping his note pad open. When he looks up again Dean is obviously struggling to hold back a laugh. “What?”

“It’s just… You’re such a cliché.” He huffs a small laugh and shakes his head.

“Im… sorry?” Castiel says, uncertain, confused. Dean’s smile widens slightly and his eyes narrow a bit, warmth emanating from those sparkling green eyes. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but that head tilt thing you do is really adorable.”

Castiel stammers and feels his face heat up. He presses a hand to his cheek and looks away, mutters, “I didn’t know I _did_ a thing.”

Dean hums and brings his hands up to rest his chin on his fists. The room is quiet, tense, but not unpleasantly so. Dean’s eyes are captivating, and to Castiel’s surprise, seem to convey Dean’s soul. _The eyes are the windows to the soul,_ Castiel thinks, though he has never seen anyone whose eyes so clearly show him what’s inside. 

Which is why he is shocked to find that, from what he can tell, Dean has a beautiful soul.

He may appear dark and a bit twisted on the outside, but beyond that there is nothing but affection and good intentions. Already Castiel is having a hard time believing that Dean could be as horrible as people have have made him out to be.

“You wanna’ start this, or should I be looking for some candles to light?” Dean asks, his teeth shining through his wide smirk. Castiel blinks in surprise and hates that his face warms with blood once more. He boils it down to the fact that Dean is - supposedly - a psychopath, and is, in turn superficially and unsurprisingly charming.

“Would you mind telling me why you are on death row, Dean?” Castiel asks, ignoring Dean’s question entirely. Dean frowns for the first time since Castiel has entered the room, and it doesn’t suit him.

“Apparently because I murdered six _people_.”

Castiel catches the inflection and raises a brow in confusion, “are you implying that your victims weren’t people?”

“Exactly,” Dean says, smiling though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “No one believes me, though. They keep sayin’ I’m making fun of the ‘victims’.”

“So, if they weren’t people, what were they?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Dean laughs to himself, mirthless and tired, but Castiel waits patiently. After a moment Dean sighs and relents, “monsters. Not the kind like the guys here in jail, but _real_ monsters. The ones with sharp teeth and a taste for blood. It’s my job to hunt them down and keep them from killing innocent people. My brother and I track and kill them.”

“I assume you don’t get paid to save these people?” Castiel asks, tiptoeing around his skepticism. He can hardly believe Dean is even saying these things, much less begin to see them as truth; but his job isn’t to judge, rather it’s to get the story straight.

“Nope.” Dean shifts to lean back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest the best he can considering his restraints. He narrows his eyes at Castiel and licks his lips, “you’re not calling me a lunatic yet, so I’m guessing either you believe me or you’re being extra sweet to me ‘cause you think I’m pretty.”

That stupid smirk is back, and as much as Castiel hates to admit it, he feels his face run warm. This is bad.

“While you are quite aesthetically pleasing, that has nothing to do with the conversation.”

“Huh, that’s a shame.” Dean’s smile fades and his eyes turn serious and hard, “so... you believe me then?”

“Not necessarily, but it’s my job to hear what you have to say, not to inflict my own opinion upon the article.”

Dean’s eyebrows raise slightly, “well, that’s new.”

“What?”

“A journalist who actually does his job.”

“I feel like I should find that insulting,” Castiel shoots back, narrowing his eyes in on Dean, who is smiling again.

“Nah. See, it’s a compliment to you because _you_ are the one doing it right.”

Castiel nods in understanding, and moments later remembers why he is here in the first place. He scribbles down some quick notes on anything important that Dean has said so far: _Brother, monster hunter, unemployed._

“So, what monsters were these that you killed?”

Dean laughs and rubs at his forehead, “Well, back to business, huh? When they caught me it was a witch. They pinned me for a djinn, a shapeshifter, and three of the bastards’ victims.”

“So, three of the murders weren’t your doing?”

“Exactly.”

  
“Is there any way you can think of to prove this to me?” Castiel asks. Dean frowns slightly, as if deep in thought, and shrugs after a moment.

“Nothin’ that wouldn’t probably get you killed.”

“Try me.”

Dean raises his eyebrows in surprise, turning the corners of his mouth downwards in an impressed gesture, which fades into a half-smile. “You could find my brother. Wouldn’t be easy, and he might not trust you, but he could show you something.”

“How would I find him?” Castiel asks, surprising even himself. Dean laughs in disbelief.

“You’re serious right now?”

“Very.” Castiel narrows his eyes in thought and shrugs, “I think knowing that you are telling the truth is incredibly important.”

“I think that might have somethin’ to do with you being a decent journalist.” Dean smiles brightly and makes a grabbing gesture to the pen and pad, both of which Castiel reluctantly slides across the metal table to him. After a moment of scribbling, Dean spins the pad around and pushes it back to Castiel.

Upon the lined yellow paper is a name - Sam - and a set of coordinates, a phone number, and a codeword: funky-town.

“We use funky-town for a danger signal, but I think he’ll get it.”

Before Castiel can come up with a response, the thick metal door is being pulled open loudly.

“Time’s up,” the man in blue announces impatiently, motioning for Castiel to hurry. Castiel gathers his things and stands to leave. Just before he makes it out he looks back to where Dean sits staring, catching the other man’s smirk and wink.

“See ya’ soon, Castiel.”

“How did you know my name?” Castiel asks, and this time he notices the way his head tilts to one side and he corrects it immediately. Dean doesn’t miss it, though, and his lips twitch up in a tiny smile.

“Hmm, that’s a _secret_ ,” Dean hums, still smirking as the door closes between them. Castiel realizes, belatedly, that his heart has been beating a little to fast and his palms are slightly sweaty. Dean is distractingly handsome, which makes Castiel wonder how much of what he had said and done was based on logic and how much based on attraction. After all, who could possibly believe the monster story?

Apparently, Castiel could.

And so can Sam Winchester.

∆•∆•∆•∆

Castiel throws his note pad down on the coffee table and lets himself sink back into the worn faux-leather couch that came with the apartment. Dean’s mess of blocky handwriting stares up at him, begging to be payed attention to, and he can’t possibly say no. Besides, he needs to get some more information. Calling Sam Winchester is probably the most efficient way to spend his time. This, at least, is what he tells himself to justify his curiosity as he dials the phone number scrawled across the page.

The phone rings twice, then a man’s voice comes through, quiet and hopeful, asking, “Dean?”

Castiel’s heart swiftly sinks into his stomach.

“No…” He answers slowly with an ache in his chest. “But Dean told me to call you.”

Sam says nothing for a long moment, then there is a muffled shuffling sound on the other end and he asks, “Why?”

Castiel’s throat tightens around his answer. He has never before needed to break such terrible news, nor has he ever been any good at doing so lightly. Bluntness is simply a part of his personality, and right now he feel it’s his worst aspect.

“Dean has been placed on death row.”

“I know that already,” Sam says, calm as ever. “I meant why did he ask you to call? Who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Castiel Novak. I am a journalist and I’ve been assigned to your brother’s story…” Sam stops him with a scoff and his brow furrows, “what?”

“Nothing,” Sam says quietly, “sorry.”

“ _Right_ …” 

“Just… _Why_ did he ask you to call?”

“Because I need you to prove to me that monsters are real.”

Silence follows; painfully awkward silence. Then a laugh, loud and amused, pouring through the phone, but Castiel does not laugh along. Sam seems to notice this and slowly grows quiet again.

“Wait, you’re serious?”

“Very.”

“You realize what you’re asking, right?” Sam asks, and before he can respond continues hurriedly, “This could be really dangerous for you, and I don’t even know you. I don’t know if I can trust you, or if you’re telling me the truth, and…”

“Funky-town.” 

Castiel feels foolish the moment the word has left his mouth, and he isn’t sure Sam will understand it. He closes his eyes and waits through the silence, listening to Sam’s steady breathing on the other end.

“Yeah, okay,” Sam whispers, sounding tired and resigned. 

“So you will help me?” Castiel asks, genuinely surprised though he knows there is no reason to be. Dean _said_ that Sam would understand, but somehow it still surprises him.

“Yeah.” The rustling of paper on the other end seems almost too loud. “How far are you from Pontiac, Michigan?”

“I’m there now. I.. I live there.”

“Oh…” More papers rustle, then a soft exhale. “Why are you doing this, anyway?”

“Because I want to know the truth. Maybe if I know, I can…” Castiel trails off and rubs absently at his forehead, realizing that even if it were true, the chances of convincing a judge and jury would be slim. “I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s more than most people would have come up with.” Sam pauses to let out a mirthless, breathy laugh, “then again, most people would just write us off as psychopaths. So, obviously you’re different.”

Castiel thinks that, if he could see Sam right now he might be smiling based on the warmth of his voice.

“I have a lead here in Pontiac, if you’re up for it?”

“Yes,” Castiel says immediately, not allowing himself time to think too much about it.


	2. Sharp Teeth and Blood

Nearly two hours have passed since Castiel called Sam, and now he sits across from a gigantic, floppy haired man who calls himself a “hunter”, legs tucked under his seat at the low formica table in a cheap motel room. Spread out in front of him is a large map of the city and an old leather bound journal that Sam had enforced vehemently that he be _very_ careful with. Sam said it belonged to his father, John.

John Winchester was by no means an outstanding writer, but the story his entries tell is tragic and somewhat infuriating. Half of it is coded and laced with unintelligible lore and myth, while the other half is proof of the Winchesters’ lives of hardship and loss. It also tells of John’s failure to properly raise his sons - which, if nothing else, gives a bit of insight into why Dean is in jail awaiting execution. Reading this journal makes Castiel’s blood boil with the injustice of it. These boys never had a normal life, or a normal family, and it appears to be John’s fault. He hates it.

But the rest of it, the lore, is reminiscent of a book Castiel once read when he was younger. He isn’t sure if he believes any of it.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Sam asks, clearly concerned.

“I think that if I am ever going to believe you and your brother, I will need to see it for myself.”

Sam nods but doesn’t seem entirely appeased by this answer. He slides a piece of paper across the table as he explains to Castiel that the common pop-culture vampire is a grossly inaccurate representation of the actual thing.

“Sunlight doesn’t turn them to ash - or make them sparkle - only burns their eyes, and a stake to the heart will not kill one. And the whole garlic thing is just… it’s weird, I don’t know who came up with that. The only way to kill a _real_ vampire is to behead them, but dead-man’s blood will make them weak and slow them down.”

As Sam explains this, Castiel reads over the sheet Sam handed him. It is an article from the paper he works at, and he isn’t surprised one bit to find that, since Balthazar wrote it, it is hardly informative and comes across gossipy and uninformed. Strangely enough, the readers seem to prefer Balthazar’s articles over Castiel’s, which he finds completely absurd. He at least managed to fit some useful information in, if Sam’s confidence is anything to go by.

“Abandoned warehouse on the edge of town,” Sam says, and Castiel looks up from Balthazar’s article to raise a brow at him. “That’s where the nest is.”

“Nest?” Castiel asks, brow furrowed.

“That’s just what we call a vampire’s group.” Sam shrugs and stands to pack away the machete and various other weapons he had laid out on the motel bed. Castiel thinks that maybe Sam’s collection of sharp knives and guns should be concerning, but he doesn’t feel threatened by Sam in the least. He may be a towering, strong young man, but he comes off as kind hearted and innocent - similar to his brother - even _if_ he has a screw or two loose. But not threatening. Honestly, Castiel feels safe. More safe than he does around Zachariah, at least.

Once Sam has finished stuffing a duffle bag with his supplies, he steps in front of Castiel and holds out an old machete with dried blood in it’s grooves; holds it out handle first for Castiel to take.

“It’s Dean’s. You might want to take it… just in case.” Sam shrugs helplessly and gestures with the hilt of the machete. Castiel frowns, but wraps his fingers around the handle anyway, believing that if Sam deems it necessary, it probably is. Somehow, it doesn’t feel odd or wrong to hold this weapon - which he knows has killed more than a few… creatures. It also doesn’t feel wrong to sit in the passenger seat of an old black muscle car next to the brother of an alleged murderer while old rock music spills quietly from the speakers.

After the first song ends Sam starts talking again, “sorry about the music. It’s Dean’s, he is _really_ picky… I could put it on the radio if you -”

“No, I like this. It’s not bad.”

Sam half-smiles and shoots a quick glance at Castiel, to which he responds with a shrug.

“This is Dean’s car, too. Used to be our dad’s, but after…” Sam pauses, staring at the road like it holds the answer to life, his hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel. “When dad died Dean rebuilt it from the floor up.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“What? Rebuilding the car? Yeah, I guess so, but he knew it like the back of his hand, so…”

“No, I meant losing your father.” Castiel regrets saying it almost as soon as it’s been said. Sam frowns and nods, seemingly to himself, before huffing a sigh.

“Yeah. I mean, I miss him, but… He wasn’t exactly dad of the year, ya’ know?” 

“I understand.” And unlike most times when Castiel has said those two words, he means them. He means them because he truly does understand what it’s like to have a shitty father; one who doesn’t seem to care, who never played his role as a father, who disappeared and never came back. Castiel doesn’t even know what his father looked like, or what his voice sounded like. His father was a ghost; hovering on the edge, doing _just_ enough to exist in some way, but never enough to be a true father.

Sam nods again and they dissolve back into silence. Castiel watches the city pass by and wonders how many of the people on the street Sam would consider to be monsters. Would he pick out a suspicious vendor and call him a werewolf? Or would he point out a little girl and say she was a demon? Maybe accuse a witch of the woman leaned up against the facade of a building with worn and dirty clothing, holes in her shoes and tangles in her hair?

Or maybe Sam wouldn’t unjustly accuse any of them. Maybe Sam looks for the signs he had been raised to be alert to and picks out the ones he’s sure are monsters. Maybe the monsters are real.

Castiel is finding it surprisingly easy to keep his mind open here, and while that is typically a good thing he wonders why he even bothers to have any faith in the Winchesters. He doesn’t even know them.

Yet here he sits, staring up at an old cement warehouse with Sam Winchester at his side, holding a machete in his lap which he hopes not to need. Sam shoots him a questioning glance, as if asking if Castiel is ready, and though Castiel isn’t sure he ever _can_ be ready for something like this, he nods.

It isn’t until Sam has quietly pushed the door open and gestured for Castiel to follow him inside that he realizes that, if Sam and Dean are lying, he might be witness to a murder today. Or _he_ might have to be the one to murder someone. He suppresses a shiver and follows silently behind Sam, holding the machete out in front of himself protectively. He feels an innate sense of fear, though not towards the man leading him through a dark and empty building. He finds that he doesn’t feel the need to worry about Sam, or about Sam attacking him. Once again, he feels safe, though he doesn’t know why.

It’s the idea of fangs and blood that makes him uneasy here in this dark, damp corridor. A lightbulb overhead flickers briefly and throws disproportionate shadows upon the walls, making Castiel’s heart jump in his chest. He tamps it down and tries to stay alert, unsure of what’s to come.

Shards of broken glass crackle beneath their feet, echoing through the empty hallway, and Castiel feels slightly short of breath knowing that there might be something in any of the rooms around him; something that could jump out and attack him if he isn’t careful. He is too busy scanning the area behind them anxiously to realize that Sam has stopped and walks straight into him, stumbling slightly as he regains awareness of his surroundings. Sam shoots him a scornful look and jerks his head to indicate something around the corner, holding a finger to his lips for Castiel to keep quiet. Castiel nods wordlessly and grips the hilt of Dean’s machete a little tighter.

Sam holds out an open hand before him to signal that Castiel should stay put, and swiftly turns the corner, disappearing from sight. Only moments later Castiel hears someone guffaw in surprise, then a grunt, a muffled shout, a sickening squelch and the snap of a bone. Castiel claps a hand over his mouth and forces his breathing to remain even and slow.

Frantic footsteps sound from behind him, and Castiel raises the machete out in front of himself as a precaution. The man running towards him is short and scrawny, anemic with sharp, angular features, but he’s fast and he’s snarling loudly as he approaches. The last thing Castiel wants to do is kill someone who doesn’t deserve to be killed, so he backs up to get away from the man, until his back is pressed flush against the wall. The man slows to a threatening crawl, shoulders hunched upwards, fingers curled into claws at his sides, smirking up at Castiel with a vicious sparkle in his flat brown eyes.

“Hmmm, you smell _delicious_ ,” the man drawls, licking his lips. Castiel gasps in surprise and confusion, and the man grins widely, his pointed teeth coming clearly into view. Castiel is too dumbstruck by the sight to properly defend himself when the man lunges forward, managing to duck out of the way enough that the man’s clawed fingers only graze his temple when he strikes. Castiel can feel the blood well up in the small cut left above his brow, hisses in pain, and ducks away from another strike.

“Castiel!” Sam calls out from somewhere out of sight, voice colored by panic. Of course, Castiel knows that if he gets hurt here, Sam will blame himself. But he shouldn’t. It was Castiel who insisted that he be allowed to come along, and he refuses to subject Sam to that burden.

“Ooh, pretty _and_ exotic,” the man says, inhales deeply and licks his lips slowly, “and I can tell already, you’re gonna’ taste wonderful.”

“That’s very strange,” Castiel grumbles, squinting at him. The man laughs, exposing those sharp teeth once more. When the man’s head is tipped back Castiel makes his move, swinging the blade fast and with all the strength he can muster, straight to his bared neck. Castiel is surprised by how easy it is to cut through, and blinks in amazement as the man’s head tumbles to the ground mere seconds before his body crumples, blood spilling forth like a fountain from his neck.

“Disgusting,” Castiel whispers brokenly, wrinkling his nose and stepping away from where a pool of blood is slowly forming. Sam approaches him with wide eyes and blood spattered face and clothes.

“You alright?” Sam asks, glancing down at the decapitated head at his feet. Castiel stares blearily up at Sam and thinks about how to answer. He doesn’t feel like he is hurt, or mentally scarred. Not yet, anyway. He kneels down to wordlessly pry open the man’s mouth, examining his pointed teeth. Sam shifts on his feet and explains, “they don’t really have just two fangs.”

“I see,” Castiel drones, tilting his head to better view the teeth. He reaches a finger out to touch one of the many fangs, and as his fingertip grazes the edge of one tooth they all begin to retract, slowly drawing up into the vampire’s gums. Castiel hums in thought and pushes up to his feet, staring down at the monster’s head. He feels a bead of blood roll from his cut and swipes it away, scowling at the streak of crimson left shining on the side of his hand. The vampire twitches at his feet.

“They look like people.”

“That’s why we have so many problems with authorities,” Sam clarifies, shrugging slightly as he places a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “But, seriously, you gonna’ be okay?”

“Yes. I think so.” And Castiel believes it. Somehow he thought that this would be more shocking than it is. Finding out that the monsters people tell young children don’t exist are very real and so well disguised seems like it should be a culture-shock kind of moment, but Castiel feels as if he expected it all along. And maybe he did, but he can’t remember. All he knows is that he doesn’t feel horrible for killing that vampire, or for having blood on his hands - literally.

But he does feel horrible knowing that Dean is sitting in a prison cell, waiting for his end, for doing just that; killing a _monster_.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

Castiel sits on the edge of a motel bed, a cup of cheap coffee clutched in his hands, staring into it’s dark depths while Sam sits in a backwards plastic chair, hands clutched in front of him, forearms pressed against the back of the seat. There is still blood under Castiel’s nails, and the cut above his brow is an incessant stinging pain.

“So, I guess you believe us now, huh?” Sam says, offering Castiel a small, kind smile laced with sympathy. Castiel huffs out a heavy breath and shakes his head.

“How could I not believe you after that?”

“Good point.” Sam picks at his nails and frowns down at his hands. He sighs and his shoulders sag as he asks, “so, now what?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how does this help the situation with Dean?”

Castiel would love to be able to say that his word alone could change things, but he is only a journalist - which he has discovered doesn’t give him much credibility in the eyes of authority.

“Unfortunately, it would not. The only way that the reality of monsters could effect Dean’s fate would be if the judge in control of his sentence were to experience first hand…” Castiel trails off, deep in thought. Sam raises a brow at him and Castiel asks, “is there any way we can do that?”

“What, like, set the judge up?” Castiel nods slowly and Sam frowns, tilting his head up to stare at the joint between the wall and ceiling. “Maybe.”

“Do you think it’s worth trying?”

“Possibly… But, Castiel, I gotta’ ask you something.”

“What?”

Sam’s mouth presses into a flat line and he breathes deeply through his nose before turning his eyes to look directly at Castiel and asks, “why do you care about what happens to Dean?”

Castiel doesn’t know how to answer. The moment he saw Dean he felt a connection to him, though he had no idea why or what it was. He still doesn’t. But there’s something about Dean that makes him want to help. There is a painful tug in his chest when he thinks of the possibility of Dean being killed for his “crimes.”

“I don’t know,” Castiel answers carefully, uncertain of how to put his feelings into words. He knows that he cares, but he doesn’t know _why_.

Sam nods, though Castiel thinks he sees a little smirk on Sam’s face.


	3. We Need to Talk About Dean

Two days after his meeting with Sam Winchester - two unproductive days consisting mostly of staring at stranger’s mouths and wondering how many of them have fangs hidden away - Castiel returns to the prison to talk to Dean.

The same guard in blue sends him a glare as he pulls open the door to the cold grey room, and this time Dean is slouched back lazily in his chair, grinning up at Castiel as he enters the room.

“You’re back sooner than I thought you’d be,” Dean announces cheerfully.

“I hope that’s not a problem.”

“Nah, not at all. Besides, you’re interesting.”

“As are you, Dean.”

Dean’s smile softens slightly and Castiel feels one corner of his mouth turn up in response. Dean is… captivating. Green eyes that dance in the fluorescent lights, a charming, pink lipped smile with a hint of teeth. Perfect, in the way any imperfect person is. Beautifully broken; frayed at the edges but, unsurprisingly, still managing to allure… Dean clears his throat quietly, and Castiel realizes he has been staring.

“I contacted Sam,” Castiel says abruptly, breaking the quiet that had settled in the room. 

“Oh?” Dean asks, leaning forward in his chair enthusiastically. Castiel nods. “He wasn’t a dick to you, was he?”

“Not at all,” Castiel answers, taking a deep breath to fend off memories of sharp teeth and blood. Over the last two days, the reality of the experience has begun to sunk in, leaving him feeling unsettled and slightly paranoid. “He was very helpful.”

“Good.” Dean smiles down at the table, a fond little curve of his lips, “he’s a good kid, but he can be a real ass sometimes.” The hunter looks up and his viridescent eyes scan Castiel’s face, lingering on the scab above his brow for a moment, asks, “what’d he tell ya’?”

“He told me about vampires.”

“And?”

“And… I beheaded one,” Castiel whispers conspiratorially across the table, worried that someone might hear though they are alone in the room. Dean slides forward a bit father in his chair, chains rattling noisily, eyes widened and glimmering with surprise.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.” Castiel frowns and indicates the scabbed cut above his brow, “and I have proof.”

“Jesus… You okay?” Dean’s voice has gone soft and concerned. He leans father forward still to examine Castiel’s face more closely, the chains on his wrists dragging loudly on the cement floor and clinking together when he tries to reach out. His hands fall to the table with a dissatisfied thud.

“Besides my sudden wariness of strangers, yes, I suppose I’m fine.”

“Yeah, that happens everybody’s first time.”

The room falls silent, and the cold air turns warm, sends goosebumps up Castiel’s arms. As he stares at Dean, he wonders how he could ever get him out of this dismal prison. He has less than half the ability he would need to free Dean himself, and this newfound truth of his would never hold up in a court of law. As quickly as the flat, chilly grey of the room had been colored, it is leeched of it’s warmth and the entire room seems to darken as a cloud comes into existence above Castiel’s head.

“I don’t think I can get you out of here, but I…” he trails off, surprised that he had said so much aloud. He isn’t even certain of why he feels so strong a desire to help. It seems a hopeless endeavor, anyway.

“Whoa, whoa, _wait_ … I never said I thought you would, Cas.” Dean’s brow is furrowed, his eyes hazy.

“And I never _said_ that I would, but I wish…” Castiel sighs into his hands and shakes his  weary head. “You should not be in here, Dean.”

“No.”

Castiel shudders silently, pained by the resignation in Dean’s voice. The amount of dread packed into a single syllable is enough to fill the whole room with a despairing heaviness which pulls both men’s shoulders down around them like armor.

“What you did - right or wrong - is not who you are… and I… I just wish there was a way I could help you.”

“But _why_?” Dean asks, and with a single word comes a heavy, distinct undertone of self-hate.

“You… don’t think you _deserve_ to be saved?” Castiel asks slowly, watching with analytical eyes as Dean slumps down in his chair, enervated and eerily silent.

Dean doesn’t answer, and as he stares at Castiel his eyes grow wet and unfocused. Castiel feels the injustice of Dean’s silence smack him straight in the chest, filling him with bitterness like acid burning him from the inside out. Dean’s eyes drop to his hands and Castiel barely restrains himself from throwing his chair or taking Dean by the shirt and…

“Dean,” Castiel growls, “look at me.” Dean looks up slowly, meeting Castiel’s burning gaze, and frowns. “I read your father’s journal.”

“What?” Dean inquires, his voice rough and tight. His eyes move restlessly across the planes of Castiel’s face, seemingly searching for a sign that this is a joke. It only worsens the tightness in Castiel’s chest.

“I read it, and I know what you have been through. I know that you took care of Sam, that you lost your mother, and that your father was… a lost cause, to put it lightly. And I know that you didn’t ever kill anyone who was _innocent_.”

While Castiel may not truly know the last to be a fact, he feels it deeply, and he trusts his gut; something he so rarely ever allows himself the freedom of doing. As rare - and possibly foolish - as this groundless trust he has placed in Dean is, trusting this man feels no more wrong than trusting someone he has known all his life. So, Castiel says he _knows_ , even though he doesn’t, because he believes it either way.

Dean, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to share the sentiment. He shakes his head, squaring his jaw as he chokes out a sentence: “but it’s _my fault_ that my dad is dead.”

Castiel sighs heavily and leans against the table, forearms pressed to the cool metal surface. Dean looks away as his eyes fill with tears, unwilling to let them fall, and Castiel knows immediately that the man before him is scared. He also knows that Dean feels like he needs to hide his fear, and his pain, because that is how his father raised him; like a soldier.

Castiel can’t see how anyone could find Dean guilty of something as terrible as murder. Though, maybe he is a bit biased.

“No, it’s not your fault.”

“How would you know?” Dean grumbles, looking up to meet Castiel’s unshakable gaze. He stares with icy green eyes, the muscles along his jaw twitch, and he says “you weren’t there, you don’t _know_.”

“True, I wasn’t there. But tell me, did you kill him with your own two hands?”

Dean gapes at him and snaps, “no!”

“Then it was not your fault.”

“But -”

Castiel silences Dean when he stands abruptly, sending his chair backwards with a tremendous clatter. He plants his hands firmly on the table with a loud, echoing smack and leans across it, bringing his face inches from Dean’s own.

A quiet catch of breath.

A puff of hot air over his lips like the lick of a flame.

A constellation of freckles spread across the bridge of a nose that has clearly been broken more than once.

Thin green irises and dilated pupils staring back at Castiel, dumbstruck.

The easiest thing to do would be to simply lean forward, close the gap of those short few inches, press all the words he can’t find into Dean’s lips, _hoping_ he would understand that he is anything but worthless. He isn’t just a soldier, just a convict, just a son, or just a brother. He is important, wanted, cared for...

But Dean is a prisoner, whom Castiel hardly knows - though he almost feels as if he has known Dean all his life, - and there are guards standing in the now open door, _watching_.

So Castiel does the difficult thing; he pushes himself away, stands tall, and averts his eyes. He hears Dean exhale sharply and tries to ignore the way it makes his heart-beat thud loudly in his ears. After gathering his pad and pen, Castiel finally meets Dean’s steady, baffled gaze, feels his stomach twist and flip within. His knees feel slightly weak.

“I will be back in two days.”

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

Immediately after returning to his barren apartment that afternoon, Castiel hurls his note pad at the bare wall, cursing his lack of judgement. Then cursing the emptiness of the lined yellow paper. He has nothing.

Everything Castiel has on Dean is useless. 

Zachariah would have his head if he wrote an article based on his limited knowledge of vampires and unfortunate attraction to a green-eyed convict.

He needs _something_. Anything.

So he calls Sam again, waiting and listening to the dial tone. Five rings. Then a click and Sam’s heavy breathing on the other end. Castiel’s brow furrows and he wonders what exactly he just interrupted. He decides that he doesn’t want to know.

“Sam?” Castiel asks, pointlessly, but only for the sake of being polite, because he already knows the answer.

“Yeah... Castiel? Why are you calling?”

“I need your help.”

“Is something wrong?” 

Castiel nearly laughs at the question. Of course Sam would ask that. He doesn’t know Sam very well, but Castiel thinks that Sam may be quite protective, like his brother. Dean doesn’t like to show it, but Castiel can _feel_ the fraternal bond when Dean talks about his brother; and he didn’t hesitate a _second_ to show concern for Castiel’s own well-being, either. Maybe it’s a family trait.

“Not exactly. I just need to talk to you. In person, ideally.”

“Oh,” Sam says with a relieved breath. “Yeah, okay. Now?”

“That would be preferable, unless you need some time.”

“Now is fine,” Sam insists, then makes a soft grunting sound and adds, “actually, maybe give me half an hour? I was just out for a run.”

“I understand,” Castiel answers, and Sam sighs appreciatively before thanking Castiel and hanging up.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

“So, how is Dean doing?” Sam asks. Castiel looks up from his coffee, surprised.

“You haven’t seen him?”

“No. He… He kinda’ told me not to.” Sam shakes his head gravely and sips at his coffee. “He just doesn’t want to get me too involved in this if he can help it.”

“He seems well.” Castiel’s mind returns to the moment before he left the prison and he has to suppress a sigh. “As well as someone in his position can be, I suppose.”

“That’s good.”

Castiel nods and extracts his slightly crumpled note pad, clicking his pen into place. 

While a small table in the middle of a coffee shop may not be the best place to discuss matters as serious as Dean’s conviction and past, they don’t have many options here, and as much as Castiel feels he can trust Sam, he would prefer not to let him into his apartment so soon. Thankfully, the coffee shop is sparsely populated this time of day - three in the afternoon isn’t exactly coffee rush hour, and this shop isn’t very popular to begin with.

Their table sits in the corner, surrounded on two sides by large glass panes. Outside it is warm and sunny, but in here the lighting is dull and the colors are flat. Castiel isn’t surprised at all that the shop is unpopular, if for that reason alone. Their coffee isn’t bad, though.

Castiel scrawls ‘Sam Winchester’ across the top of the paper and looks up at Sam, unsure of where to start. In fact, he isn’t even sure what he’s supposed to write about at this point.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Castiel hears himself say. Sam frowns at him and wraps his large hands around his comparatively small coffee cup. “I don’t think I can possibly write about the truth and still maintain my job. Not in this situation.”

“I don’t expect you to write this truthfully.” Sam shrugs and smiles lightly at him, “I guess just write what people think they know already. You could add in some other details, just to make it more believable.”

“I prefer to write what is factual over what people want to hear. That’s Balthazar’s job.”

“So, pretend you’re _Balthazar_ for a while.”

Castiel snorts and promptly apologizes for it, explaining to Sam why that was so absurd; an explanation for which he is rewarded an amused chuckle and more than one eye-roll.

“Balthazar sounds like a douche,” Sam announces when Castiel is finished. 

“He is nice enough.” He nods in agreement anyway, and sips at his slowly cooling coffee. It’s bitter and nutty, and though Castiel doesn’t exactly like the taste, it serves its purpose. 

Sam quietly asks, “so, what do you need to know for your article?”

Castiel nearly thanks Sam outright for returning them to the proper topic. He seems to be developing a habit of straying from his point.

“Anything you can tell me about the reason Dean is…” Castiel stops himself from saying _self-deprecating_ , corrects himself moments before and says, “incarcerated. And background information if you find it relevant.”

“Okay,” Sam nods to himself, deep in thought. After a moment he starts turning his cup in his hands. “The night that Dean got caught we were hunting a witch. There were a few suspicious deaths around town, which I’m sure you know about. We came here to check them out, tracked down the witch, and we got rid of her. Her neighbors were suspicious of us, so they called the cops, who found us burning the body.”

“Why did you burn her?”

“Just to be sure she was gone for good.”

“What do you mean by that?” Castiel asks, raising a brow.

“We didn’t want a ghost on our hands. We typically burn the bodies just to be sure.” Sam shrugs awkwardly and continues on. “So, when we saw the police lights we tried to run, and I’d just ducked behind a building when they spotted Dean. They brought him in, charged him for the murder of the witch, and I was left untouched. He has always done that kind of stuff.”

“What _stuff_?”

“Sacrificing himself for me.” Sam frowns into his coffee cup with disdain, “he’s stupid.”

“But he is stupid for the right reasons. That’s what matters.”

Sam looks up to Castiel, smiling weakly, and quietly agrees. “You should tell _him_ that.”

Castiel frowns, but nods. “He has done this before?”

“All the time. Ever since we were kids. He tried to pretend I didn’t know any better, but I knew that when we ran out of food he went out to steal stuff for me. And he never said no when I asked him for the last of something. He just never cared about himself as much as he cared about me. I’d like to say I hate him for it, but I doubt I’d be alive without his stupidity.”

“He loves you,” Castiel declares quietly, still scribbling down information on his notepad. “Maybe too much.”

 Sam nods in assent and swirls his coffee wordlessly. 

“I’ve always thought so.” Sam huffs out a desolate sigh, breaking a long silence, and looks up at Castiel, “he still hates himself, though. He blames himself for everything. And mom… I barely remember her, but he’s still not over losing her. Neither was dad, but Dean’s not as dumb about it. He just plays his music and sulks sometimes.”

Castiel feels bad for writing any of that down, but he does it anyway. It’s important. Maybe some of it isn’t important in terms of the article, but certainly it’s important to him personally.

“Does he blame himself for her death as well?”

“I don’t know, but I’d guess so.” Sam laughs humorlessly and absently picks at the cardboard holder on his cup. “He drinks a lot… Especially when he’s thinking about our parents. I worry about him sometimes.”

Sam stares intently at his coffee for a moment before he says, “I think it should be me in that cell.”

“Why?”

“Because Dean has already done so much for me, already suffered enough. That should be me.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say, so instead he stays silent, unmoving, blank.

“Castiel?” Sam inquires quietly, letting the now torn up cardboard holder fall to the table in a little pile. Castiel looks up and meets his eye, inviting him to continue. “I know I already asked, but… I just want to know why you cared enough to come to me and… I mean, you killed that vampire just to get the truth.”

“I am very dedicated to my job.”

“I don’t…” Sam stops himself, pursing his lips, and shakes his head. “I just feel like there’s more to this. People don’t just jump into a car with a stranger and chop the head off of a monster… Not for an article.”

Sam is very persistent, and while Castiel admires that, he also despises it. He feels like the answer Sam is searching for is on the tip of his tongue, but the idea of saying it aloud feels like rushing himself into something he isn’t ready to face. After what happened only hours ago, Castiel is starting to understand. But if he were to tell Sam it could cause problems. Admitting to it would make it feel _much_ more real, and most likely, much more wrong.

“Maybe.” Castiel answers. It seems to be the only word he can say that isn’t a lie, but isn’t too much, either. Sam’s eyes narrow in on him, seemingly trying to pick him apart.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean…” Castiel turns to look out the window, staring out at the clear sky where the sun is falling to the horizon and setting the sky on fire, and sighs heavily. “I mean I’m not entirely sure why I care.”

Sam nods, though he doesn’t seem to believe Castiel in the slightest. This is confirmed when the corner of his mouth twitches and he says, “I think I get it.”

“Please, explain it to me, then. I am clueless.”

Sam laughs quietly, though it doesn’t feel like an insult like most times people laugh at him. It feels like the way an old friend laughs while reminiscing about the past, or a brother at an inside joke. While it is a bit odd, it is also very pleasant. Castiel has never had someone laugh like that to him.

“I don’t want to give anything away.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Castiel mutters, scratching at an old coffee stain on the table.

“I would tell you, really, but I think you need to figure this one out on your own.”

Castiel agrees silently, because he knows that Sam is probably right; even if he _is_ anxious now.


	4. I Like You, Don't Lie

Castiel falls back on his bed and stares at the ceiling, wondering if it might come to life and give him all the answers he needs. Five minutes of staring and his phone rings; a shrill, persistent sound that makes him want to toss the infernal thing out the window for a car to run over. He pulls it from his pocket and glances down at the blinking screen to see the word “boss” scrawled across the little screen in big white letters. He groans and lets it go to voicemail.

Zachariah is easier to deal with when the conversation is _expected_ to be one sided.

Castiel closes his eyes and waits, and eventually the ding of a new voicemail sounds from the phone in his hand. He raises it to his ear and listens apathetically to the irritating voice of his boss pour through the speaker loud enough to make the audio crackle with the effort not to blow the phone to pieces.

 _“Castiel, I really wish you would answer your phone for_ once _in your damn life. I need that article of yours by tomorrow evening. I don’t care how late you have to stay up to write it, but I need_ something _to give the editors. You are_ not _going to back out on me like last time, you understand? Give me something ASAP.”_

Castiel makes a face at his phone and quietly mocks Zachariah’s nasally voice, tossing the infernal device to the other side of the bed. He heaves himself up to sit upright, scrubbing at his face with both hands. He should shave. And shower. And do anything but write that article.

But he writes the article instead, and an hour and a half later he is rereading his first draft for the third time and hating himself. He doesn’t want to lie. The entire article seems like a lie. It’s impersonal and, in Castiel’s opinion, sounds like a gossip rag. He wants to toss it out the window - which he realizes he has been wanting to do more and more often.

He stares at the story laid out before him, chewing absently on the end of a pen, fingers twitching against his keyboard, wanting to rewrite it all and tell the truth.

After five minutes of achieving nothing, he decides that he doesn’t care what Zachariah or anyone else thinks, and he revises his article.

He tells the truth.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

“What the hell is this?” Zachariah hisses through his teeth, throwing Castiel’s article down on his massive desk with a pathetic little _plop_.

“It’s what you asked for.”

“ _No_. No, no, no.” Zachariah stops pacing to splay his hands out flat on his desk, glaring down at Castiel, “I asked for an informative article on a murderer, not some fictitious bullshit story making the guy out to be some tragic hero. What _the hell_ are you doing? Do you think this is a _game_?”

Castiel stares up at him apathetically and shrugs. Zachariah’s face begins turning red, and he slams his fists against the desk before he begins pacing again.

“I can’t give this to the editors, Castiel. They will think that the _entire floor_ is making shit up because of this stunt. I refuse to sacrifice my reputation so you can get your kicks being a sassy little...” Zachariah trials off, words turning into an unintelligible growl, then morphing into something that is most accurately described as the low shriek of an ancient reptilian creature. Pterodactyl, maybe. Or maybe Castiel imagined that part.

“I’m sorry, but you asked for the _truth_ , didn’t you?” Castiel asks, raising one brow lazily.

“That is exactly why I’m so _furious_!”

“Except, I gave you exactly what you asked for.”

“Are you seriously trying to tell me you believe this crap?” Zachariah taps the article feverishly, staring at Castiel in disbelief and disgust. Castiel simply nods, and Zachariah loses it. He shoves the article off the desk in a flurry of paper and shouts, “I have had enough of your shit, Castiel!”

And this is how Castiel loses his job.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

Castiel still goes to visit the prison that Thursday.

The guards and wardens don’t know that Castiel has lost his job, so just to be sure that they don’t refuse him he carries his note pad where they can see it. A different man in blue - admittedly much more friendly - opens the door to the cold gray room and Castiel immediately slumps down into the chair. Dean stares at him, puzzled, and Castiel’s heart beats out of time.

“I’m liking the peach fuzz, Cas.” Dean pauses, tone turning serious, “but no tie today?” He asks, indicating with two fingers where Castiel’s crooked blue tie usually sits around his neck. Castiel shrugs and looks down at his clothes. He hadn’t thought to clean up since he had no real work to do, so he wears a two day old dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, a pair of dark slacks, a few days worth of stubble on his face and a tired expression. He suddenly feels very self-conscious about the way he looks and shifts a little in his seat, looking back up to Dean.

“I don’t have a job anymore.”

Dean frowns and his brow draws together, “what happened?”

“I handed in the article I wrote about you, and my boss didn’t like it.”

“Wait, so he fired you over one bad piece?” Dean’s expression darkens, and if Castiel isn’t mistaken it seems like Dean may be thinking of possible ways to get back at Zachariah. There, in that moment, Castiel sees the part of Dean other people must see all the time; the threatening, psychotic looking man that Dean surely is not.

“Not exactly. Mostly it was because I told the truth. But he never liked me anyway, this was just the last straw.”

“That’s fucked, Cas.” Dean shakes his head disdainfully, then stops abruptly and his eyes widen, “wait, you what?”

“I told the truth.”

“I should’a told you that wouldn’t go well.” Dean frowns and corrects himself, “you should have _known_ that wouldn’t go well.”

“Oh, I did. I just didn’t care anymore.” Castiel shifts his legs, stretching them out beneath the table. “I never liked working there anyway.”

“Then why did you?”

“It was a job. I felt like it was my only option. And... my father owns the paper. I don’t remember him, though, and I never see him, so it’s not like disappointing him is going to change anything.”

Dean frowns sympathetically, “jeez, Cas, I’m sorry.” He leans back in his chair and raises both hands to scrub one of them over his mouth. The chains rattle noisily as he stretches out, his leg bumping Castiel’s beneath the table. Neither of them moves.

“So, why’d you come back here?” Dean asks after a moment.

“We had an appointment.”

Dean smiles and laughs breathily, shaking his head fondly. “Yeah, I guess we did.”

Dean’s eyes sparkle in the dim light of the room, and Castiel feels a warmth creep from the point where their legs touch all the way up to his face, turning his cheeks a shade of pink. He shakes it off and looks down at his hands in his lap, playing absently with his belt loops.

“You seem lonely,” Dean observes aloud. Castiel doesn’t dare look up at him.

“I am... I’m alone.”

“Me too.” The sincerity in Dean’s voice surprises Castiel, forcing him to look up at the other man, who is staring back at him with sad eyes. Castiel honestly can’t understand how anyone could think Dean was guilty of murder. Not when he is so vulnerable and alone and hurt. 

He is tempted to call them all crazy.

“Isn’t there some way we can prove that you have been telling the truth all along?” Castiel asks quietly, feeling sick to his stomach with dread. Dean smiles sadly and shakes his head.

“No one would ever believe it.”

“I did.”

They are silent for a long moment, and Castiel loses track of how long they’ve been staring but he knows that however long, it is enough time to count twenty of Dean’s more prominent freckles.

“I don’t regret it, though,” Dean says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I saved some innocent people, and I saved my brother… and if I have to die for that, then I don’t mind.”

Dean’s mouth twitches up into a soft, humorless smile as he says, “and I got to meet you.”

Castiel’s heart sinks down into his stomach at the admission. He thinks that, if Sam were standing here in this room and once more asked Castiel “why?”, he might be able to finally give him a straight answer. Then again, he doesn’t always have the best judgement.

Dean seems to realize what he has said and flinches away as if burned, pulling his leg back and leaving Castiel feeling hollow, cold and dejected. Dean mutters something under his breath and curls in on himself. Castiel thinks he ought to blame John Winchester for what ever insecurities are causing Dean to backtrack so violently.

Castiel wants to say something along the lines of, “I’m glad I met you, too.” or maybe “please don’t hide from me.”

Instead he stays quiet and stares, bemused, at the spectacle before him.

“I’m stupid,” Dean groans quietly, biting at his bottom lip.

“Why do you say that?” Castiel manages, though he is hurting inside, burned by rejection.

“Because I…” He slowly looks up, peering up at Castiel through his lashes. Castiel wonders if Dean realizes how enticing that image is. “You confuse me.”

“Me?” Castiel asks, indignant and slightly amused. “ _You_ confuse _me_.”

“What?” Dean seems startled, sitting up a little straighter in his chair.

“I mean I… I need to be honest with you,” Castiel takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, “I think I may be developing feelings for you, which I know is stupid because you’re probably going to die soon and I -”

Dean leans as far as he can reach across the table, eyes wide, and grins almost childishly. Castiel trails off and stares at him, head cocked by it’s own accord, confused, and Dean lets out a choked laugh, eyes glittering.

“Jesus, Cas, you’re so _weird_ ,” Dean says, words warmed by affection.

“But?”

“But I like you anyway.”

Castiel feels himself smile back at Dean; the smallest of smiles, because all his energy is going into making his heart beat ten times too fast. He balloons up with a sense of hope like helium in his veins, pinpricks of doubt and disbelief the only things keeping him from floating away altogether. 

“I like you, too.”

The large metal door swings open and Dean slowly shifts back in his chair, still smiling, and the man in blue whistles for Castiel, waving him over with a slightly suspicious look on his kind young face.

Castiel leaves the prison that day with thunder in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a hard time coming to a reasonable agreement with myself about the next chapter, so it may take a while.  
> Also, this chapter was a bit shorter than the others, and for that I am sorry, but I couldn't think of any other way to end it.  
> Meh. I'm new at this, and writing really IS hard. Chuck didn't lie. But for the benefit of all of you lovely readers, I shall push my way through this muck.  
> I hope you're all enjoying this :)  
> Comments are welcomed... by which I mean PLEASE offer me any feedback you've got, I'd appreciate it greatly! I promise I don't bite.


	5. In Search of a Plan B

Sam calls Castiel on Friday and tells him that he has a plan.

“It might take some time,” Sam explains wearily, “but I think it _might_ work.”

“That's better than nothing.”

“I just hope that it will work out.” 

Castiel nods, forgetting that Sam can’t see him, and corrects his mistake by verbally agreeing. Despite this, Castiel truly doubts that Sam’s plan will work. It seems too good to be true.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

On Saturday Castiel pulls on his running shoes and runs for the first time in months. His muscles burn by the time he gets back to his apartment and he is dripping with sweat, but he thinks it’s well worth it.

The moment he steps out of his shower the phone rings and Sam’s name appears on the screen.

“Is something wrong?” Castiel asks immediately after pressing the call button.

“No,” Sam replies, sounding confused. “I went to see Dean, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Sam sighs and takes a moment before he says, “he was pissed.”

“I expected as much.” Castiel pins the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pulls on a pair of sweat pants.

“He _was_ pissed, until I mentioned you.” Castiel can hear the slightly teasing tone in Sam’s voice and it makes him nervous - nervous enough that he shivers. Or maybe he is cold. “He got this _look_ in his eyes that I haven’t seen in years. I think…” Sam trails off, clears his throat.

“What?” Castiel asks, curious, if not worried. Sam clears his throat.

“He told me you got fired.”

Castiel knows that that was not what Sam intended to say, but he accepts the change of subject anyway.

“I did.”

“You didn’t tell me that yesterday.” Sam sounds hurt, which surprises Castiel, but he realizes should have been expected. They are, by most people’s standards, friends by now. After all, you fight vampires with a guy and there is a guaranteed friendship. Bonding over dead bodies, as odd as that may seem, somehow feels almost like a cliche.

“I’m sorry, Sam. It didn’t seem relevant at the time.”

“Hey, it’s fine, I just… I dunno’. It seemed weird to hear it from Dean instead of you. Usually when someone’s locked up _they_ are out of the loop.”

Castiel shrugs a teeshirt over his head and presses the phone back up to his ear, sits himself down on his bed and hums an affirmative to Sam.

“So, you’re still going to visit him?”

Castiel stiffens, startled by the question. Somehow the idea that he _wouldn’t_ go back had not occurred to him. It seemed like the only thing he had left at this point, and not going seemed… wrong.

“Of course.” 

A droplet of water streams down the side of Castiel’s face, falls to the grey fabric of his shirt.

“Good,” Sam says quietly, “I think Dean was worried that you wouldn’t.”

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

Dean is staring blankly at the table when Castiel comes into the room and sets himself down in a chair. He doesn’t look up, but when the door closes he speaks, quiet and terse, “Sam came.”

“Is that not good?” Castiel asks, and Dean looks up at him with a look on his face as if to say _‘isn’t it obvious?’_

“No, it’s not good.”

“Why?”

“Because the more time he spends around here, the easier it will be for him to get caught, too.”

“I doubt that. I think if he has gone this long without suspicion falling on him, he will be fine.” Dean scoffs and Castiel stops him with a palm-out gesture, “he only came because he cares about you.”

“And I don’t want him here for the same reason.”

Castiel stares at Dean, unable to figure him out. Dean is stubborn. Castiel says as much and Dean rolls his eyes, huffing loudly as he settles back in his chair.

“Yeah, I know I am. But I can’t _just_ stop caring.”

“That’s not what I was implying.”

“Then what?” Dean asks, venom in his voice. “Because, _that’s_ what I heard.”

His jaw is set, his eyes cold, and Castiel wonders if Sam had been lying about what he said the other day. Dean couldn’t possibly want him here; couldn’t possibly _like_ him, even if he had said so himself. Not the way Castiel likes _him_ , anyway. Maybe Castiel had misjudged Dean before. He has always done that, ever since he was a kid. People are confusing.

“I meant… You need to let other people care about you, too.”

Dean stares at him, eyes narrowing slightly, and mumbles, “I try to.”

“Then why don’t you let Sam?”

“Because he…” Dean trails off and turns his eyes away, his argument falling flat. “I’m just worried about him, alright.”

“Alright,” Castiel asserts, folding his arms over his chest. Dean stares at the wall. “We’re trying to get you out.”

Dean laughs. Wet and mirthless, he laughs.

“I’m serious, Dean.”

“How do you plan to do _that_?” He asks, voice joking, but eyes hard and sorrowful.

“We’re thinking to… blackmail the judge, in a way.”

“What?” Dean asks, appalled.

“The idea is to prove to him that you were telling the truth by setting him up with a monster of some kind, show him first hand.”

“That’s crazy. And dangerous.”

“Yes, but it’s all we could think of so far.”

Dean shakes his head and slowly leans forward against the table, staring down at the dull metal surface thoughtfully. He speaks quietly, “you’re both idiots.”

“I know.”

He looks up at Castiel, frowning, “this could just end up getting _you_ stuck in here, too.”

“I don’t -”

“Or killed,” Dean argues.

“I don’t care.” Castiel sighs and shifts to sit farther forward, looking Dean in the eyes as he says, “I would much prefer that it were me stuck in here than you, Dean.”

Before Dean can answer, the angry man in blue is clearing his throat impatiently in the open door, arms crossed over his chest, glaring. Castiel leaves without another word.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

“I don’t think this is going to work.”

Castiel glances up at Sam, abandoning the stack of articles in front of him, asks “why?”

“Because I don’t know any monster who would _willingly_ help a hunter.”

“Not even one?”

“Not one.”

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

Castiel drags himself out of bed one morning, trudging to the kitchen of his dusty little apartment, the edges of his sweatpants sliding along the floor as he walks. A pink slip of paper peeking out from the crack of the door catches his eye and he sighs as he yanks it out of it’s unfortunate home in the doorjamb. He knew it was only a matter of time before this happened.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

“I have two weeks,” Castiel mutters into his coffee. Sam stills, staring at him. Castiel swallows his sip of coffee and clarifies, “two weeks to leave my apartment.”

“Shit.”

“I know.”

A tense silence settles over them. Sam’s motel room is small and dingy, smells like decay and stale air. Castiel feels sick.

“You could…” Sam pauses and lets his hands fall into his lap, “maybe you should stay here?”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t have to, but it would be easier.”

Castiel nods wordlessly and looks around the small room.

“I’ll have to get a different room, though,” says Sam, indicating the single bed. Castiel laughs and agrees.

“We will.”

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

Sam and Castiel have been searching for something, some monster, that will help them.  It’s been a week of searching and they have come up with nothing.

Castiel sits himself on the edge of the bed that he now calls his own, scrubbing his face with his hands, and tries not to think about how soon they might run out of time. The fusty odor of the cheap motel room keeps him centered, if not sickened. Across the room Sam shuts his laptop with a loud click, settles back heavily in his chair and groans into his hands.

“We need a new plan.”

Castiel agrees and falls backwards onto the bed, staring up at the water damaged ceiling. He wonders what will happen when this is all over. Will he search for a new job somewhere? Or maybe he will go looking for his older brother, Gabriel. But he has not seen Gabriel in years, so finding him seems to be a far fetched idea. It’s even less likely that he would find his sister, Anna. For all he knows they could both be dead. Maybe he can stay with the Winchesters, traveling across the country chopping heads off of vampires. Dean probably wouldn’t want him around, though.

“Do you know anyone who might be able to help?” Castiel asks the ceiling, and Sam answers after a moment.

“Yeah... Good idea.”

Three minutes later Sam is sitting at the edge of Castiel’s bed, holding his cellphone between them. It rings outwardly, four times from the speaker, and then a gruff man is on the other end, grumbling something unintelligible. Castiel thinks he hears the word _damn_ at least three times in a single sentence.

“Bobby,” Sam calls out, and the man on the other end goes quiet.

“Whadda’ ya’ want, boy?”

“We need to get Dean out of jail. Any ideas?”

Bobby doesn’t answer for a long time, and Castiel starts to wonder if he hung up. Then there is a loud burst of air crackling through the speaker and Bobby grumbles, “I dunno’ maybe just blow the door down?”

“Yeah, _thanks_.” Sam mutters, rolling his eyes. Castiel doesn’t understand why, though, because Bobby’s idea doesn’t sound _too_ bad. Maybe not as plan A, but it could still work.

“Hey, I’m only try’n a’ help. How’d the idjit get in there in the first place?”

“Some cops caught us on a witch hunt. Pinned him for some other crap, too.” Sam’s eyes are drooped with sadness and he smears a hand across his face, enervated and stressed. 

“Damn boy.” Bobby huffs a sigh, and slowly adds, “If you still need advice I suggest callin’ Rufus. I’d love to help ya’ but I got some real important work to do.”

A muffled yell sounds in the background before the line goes abruptly dead. Castiel stares at the phone with apprehensive confusion as Sam huffs out an unamused laugh, dialing another number. A moment later a man’s voice comes through, blunt and irritated, “ _WHAT_?”

Castiel blinks in surprise and shifts away from the phone slightly, rubbing aimlessly at his ear and wondering if it’s damaged.

“Jeez, Rufus. Calm down.”

“Don’t you tell me to calm down, dammit.”

“We just need some help.”

“Can’t. Busy.”

“Just, tell me how I can get Dean out of prison.”

“You have to be kiddin’ me.” And when Sam frowns and tells Rufus he isn’t lying, he scoffs into the phone and says one word before he hangs up. “Explosives.”

Sam grumbles something about Rufus being incompetent and dials another number before Castiel can comment that they should keep Rufus’s idea in mind, as a last resort. The phone rings three times before a young woman’s voice comes through loud and clear.

“What’s up, Sammy?”

“Don’t… don’t call me that.” Sam says, frowning down at the phone.

“Well _sorry_ , didn’t mean to offend you, Sasquatch.”

“Shut up, Jo.”

“Why should I?” Jo asks indignantly, and Castiel can imagine her standing with her hand on her hip and her nose turned upwards in defiance.

“Just put your mom on the phone you little…”

“ _Samuel_ ,” an older woman’s voice scolds, effectively cutting him off. “What’s got you all flustered and bad-mouthin’ my girl?”

“Dean’s in jail and we need to break him out. We had a plan, but it went to shit, so…”

“You watch your damn mouth, boy.”

“Sorry, Ellen.” Sam bows his head like a puppy who just got thrown out for peeing on the rug, which makes Castiel smile. He hides it behind his fist. They sound like a big dysfunctional family, all of them. It’s cute. 

But it also leaves a little twinge of longing to fester deep in Castiel’s heart.

“D’you think about blowin’ a hole in the place?” Ellen asks, and Sam scowls at the phone.

“Rufus and Bobby both told us the same thing.”

“Well maybe you should take their advice. They ain’t as dumb as they seem, y’know.”

“Yeah, what ever. Do you have any ideas that _don’t_ involve explosives? I’d rather not blow anything up unless I have to...” There is a deafening silence on the other end, and Sam seems to grow tense the longer it lasts.

“Well, you boys are so fond of playin’ pretend, why not just act like wardens or somethin’, say you have to transfer him to another prison, and just walk right out the front door?”

Sam gapes at the phone, and Castiel struggles to refrain from smacking his palm against his forehead for his stupidity. It really was obvious, wasn’t it? It’s amazing neither of them thought of that.

“Thanks Ellen, you’re the best.”

“I know,” Ellen replies, smile evident in her tone. After a moment she asks, “who exactly is _we_ , if Dean’s in jail?”

“Uh…” Sam glances over at Castiel, speechless and flummoxed. He shrugs and gestures with the phone, handing it to Castiel, who frowns at it in disdain. He hates talking to people over the phone. Especially strangers.

“Hello,” Castiel starts awkwardly, “I am the other part of ‘we’… That sounded stupid. Uh, my name is Castiel.”

Ellen laughs, then huffs out a quiet, “okay then. You seem nice enough...” There is a loud rustling from her end of the call and then Jo is back, calling out that she misses Sam and Dean, and Ellen snatches the phone back and says a terse, “goodbye and don’t get killed,” and promptly ends the call.

Castiel stares at the phone in confusion and Sam shrugs, pocketing the device and leaning back against the headboard of the bed with arms folded behind his head of shaggy brown hair.

“Looks like we’ve got our plan B.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if that was horrible, but the next chapter will be better. I swear on my Papa's ashes.  
> This chapter gave me a lot of trouble. This is the best I could do without losing my mind.  
> I hope you're all enjoying this so far, though.


	6. I Would Have Nothing if I Didn't Have You

“Are you sure about this?” Castiel asks, squinting at the fake badge Sam tossed to him moments ago. Sam shrugs and tightens his tie in front of the bathroom mirror.

“Not really, but it’s the best option we’ve got.”

“What if they know the badges are fake?”

Sam sighs and turns to face Castiel, “worst case scenario, they throw us behind bars for impersonating FBI. Well, worst case for _you_ , anyway. I, on the other hand, have a bit of a record.”

“They will recognize me,” Castiel states, suddenly realizing their mistake. Sam’s eyes widen and his mouth forms a silent “oh.”

“Then I’ll go in alone,” Sam says decisively after a moment, turning back to the mirror to straighten his jacket. “You could come along if you want, but you can’t really do anything. You’ve been in there too many times.”

Castiel nods and tosses the fake ID to his bed, loosens his tie, and shrugs on his old tan trench coat. A few moments later Sam emerges from the bathroom, smiles tightly at Castiel and asks, “you ready?”

“I suppose so,” Castiel answers quietly, heart beat quickening with anxiety. Sam bows his head and shoves his fake badge into the inner pocket of his coat, makes a face at Castiel and scrubs a hand through his hair. Castiel flinches and swats Sam’s hand away, glowering up at him.

“Sorry, you didn’t look messy enough to be _you_.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and goes out to sit in the Impala - Sam suggested that he remember the make and model if he didn’t want Dean to go on a rant about his beauty of a car - and moments later Sam follows. 

Three minutes down the road, Sam glances at Castiel from the corner of his eye and says, “dude, relax. It’s gonna be fine.”

Castiel frowns and turns to stare out at the scenery, finding it to be much more dull than usual, and breathes deeply to try to calm himself. He hadn’t realized how tense he was until Sam pointed it out.

The drive to the prison feels like an eternity; a stretching expanse of asphalt and worn painted lines that never ends. The trees all look like the same blobs of smeared fall colors, and each house a carbon copy of the last. The clouds, shadowy and ominous, seem to be sitting motionless in the sky, darkening the whole city. 

“What if this doesn’t work?” Castiel asks miserably, letting his face fall against the cool glass of the window. The car rolls over a bump and he smacks his head against the glass, rubs it with his palm, and turns to look at Sam, who has his lips pursed and eyes set firmly on the road.

“It has to."

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

The guards at the front of the building are easy to get by, simply nodding when Sam flashes his badge, and greeting Castiel with annoyed familiarity. At the first door, the situation is much the same. But at the last door, the one behind which Dean is waiting, the man in blue decides to cause trouble.

“You expect me to open this door an just let you take this convict?” The man asks, his eyes darkening in anger and defiance.

“I do. I was sent to transfer him to an FBI sanctioned holding room for questioning.”

“What, you can’t question him _here_?” The man spares Castiel a brief glance, eyes questioning why he is here as well, but says nothing. 

“You should _not_ be back-talking me,” Sam warns, straightening himself so he towers further over the man.

“I want to talk to your superior.”

“Of course,” Sam says brusquely, pulling a small white business card from his pocket, handing it to the man with a jerky, frustrated flourish. The man smirks and thanks Sam half-heartedly before he goes to pick up a phone from the wall, dialing the number on the card. Castiel tenses and waits, swallowing thickly. Sam seems relaxed, though, and he can’t tell if the taller man is actually confident or pretending to be so as not to rouse the man’s suspicions.

“Hello, I’m calling on behalf of an agent Thompson.” The man pauses and listens to the answer, then his brow furrows. “No, sir, I didn’t…” He stops abruptly and his eyes widen. “No. Of course. Yes, sir.”

Castiel wonders who was on the other end of that call.

The man slowly places the phone back on the receiver and runs a hand through his hair, turning to face Sam and Castiel. Sam gestures to the door and the man nods quickly, rushing to punch in the code, and steps aside, standing at attention.

“Mr. Winchester,” Sam greets his brother, shooting him a look. Dean suppresses a smile and nods jerkily at him. Sam walks up to him and looks him in the eyes, lowly explaining that he is being transferred for questioning.

“Can’t do that if I’m chained to the floor, can I?” Dean asks pointedly, raising his voice enough that the man in blue can hear him. The man hurries in moments later with a set of jingling keys and unlocks Dean’s restraints. He nods to Sam as an apology and scurries away quietly.

Sam pulls a pair of cuffs seemingly from thin air and snaps them around Dean’s wrists. Dean yelps and flinches when he clasps one too tightly, and he just smirks and pulls his brother by the arm.

Leaving the building is even easier. Castiel is honestly amazed by just how smoothly the plan has gone. Once they are out in the parking lot Castiel gapes openly at Sam and Dean and muses aloud, “I can’t believe how easy that was.”

“Yeah, well, normal people are pretty gullible,” Sam says with a smirk, and just for show he shoves Dean into the backseat. Not gently, either. The older hunter growls in frustration when Sam pushes his head down and closes the door on him.

“Oh, come on!” Dean groans, wriggling around to pull himself upright, hands still chained before him. “I’ve been in there _forever_ , and now I get out and you won’t let me drive my own car?”

“Sorry, Dean, but you’re _technically_ still a convict.”

Dean turns exasperated eyes to Castiel, wagging his head in a desperate _‘seriously?’_ gesture. Castiel shrugs and Dean’s face softens, his frown slipping into a hopeful half-smile.

“Could you _at leas_ t take these cuffs off me?”

“Oh, uh…” Sam fumbles with one hand to get a key from his pocket and hands it to Castiel, never taking his eyes off the road. Castiel leans over the back of the seat and unlocks the cuffs, pulling them carefully from Dean’s hands, fingers brushing his knuckles.

Dean tears his eyes from Castiel and rubs at his wrists, muttering a soft “thanks, Cas.”

Sam raises a brow and glances at his brother over his shoulder. Castiel sighs and turns to look out the window, the tight knots in his stomach returning once more, though the clouds in the sky seem to have faded to wispy streaks of white and the grass looks a little greener, the colors of the trees more vivid and beautiful.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

A tense silence has fallen over Castiel and the Winchesters, leaving them all huddled up in their own personal bubbles. Dean lays spread out on his brother’s bed in the motel room - finally out of that horrible orange jumpsuit, and looking like a normal person, - Sam sits at the table with his head in his hands, and Castiel sits with his arms wrapped around his legs on his own bed, trench coat and suit jacket pooled around him like a make-shift nest.

Castiel had, foolishly, been under the impression that when this was over everything would turn out well, like a silly fairytale. But so far, it seems like their story isn’t ending. So far, no one has uttered a word to break the silence that fell in the car, and no one has made a move to write down their “happily ever after.”

While staring blankly at the horrible landscape painting on the wall, Castiel realizes that in a life like theirs, Dean and Sam will likely never _get_ a happily ever after. From what little he knows, every hunter seems to die before their time, and he doubts that either of the Winchesters would be an exception.

It feels like hours have passed since the silence settled, though a quick glance at the clock shows it has only been fifteen minutes, and all three of them are clearly restless and tense.

Dean shoots up from the bed and grabs his jacket, pulling it on. He leaves the room without a word.

Castiel raises a brow at Sam, who just shrugs and rubs at his forehead.

“Should I go after him?” Castiel asks quietly. It still sounds too loud.

“I wouldn’t recommend it...” Castiel scurries off of the bed and pulls his shoes and coat on. Sam stops him before he can get out of the door. “He won’t be happy.”

“I know.”

“Well, good luck, then... You’ll probably need it.”

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

There is a lake a few blocks from the motel, to which Castiel follows Dean at a safe distance. Dean sits on a wooden chair at the edge of a dock, elbows pressed to his knees, staring aimlessly at the water as the waves lap at the support beams. All around him are trees with vivid green leaves, water that shimmers brightly in the light of the lowering sun, making everything seem to glow.

Castiel watches him from a distance for some time, enjoying the relaxed slump of Dean’s normally tense shoulders, before he quietly comes to stand beside him. Dean doesn’t notice him right away, but when he does he jumps and smacks Castiel’s leg scornfully.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that, Cas.”

“Sorry.”

Dean peers up at him, mouth open slightly, and when Castiel meets his eye he quickly turns back to face the vast expanse of water before him.

“What’s up?”

“I wanted to ask you…” Castiel hesitates, watching Dean’s expression tighten, and sighs quietly, “when you and Sam leave, I would like to stay with you.”

Dean’s shoulders tense and his mouth pulls into a frown.

“You have to be sure about somethin’ like that, Cas… Our life, man, it’s pretty shitty.” He looks up at Castiel, sadness glittering in his eyes, “We’ll be on the run. Always moving so we won’t get caught… I don’t want you to have to live like us.”

“Dean,” Castiel chides softly, touching the tips of his fingers lightly to Dean’s shoulder. Dean doesn’t jerk away, to Castiel’s surprise. “I don’t care what it means for me, I have nothing left here. I _want_ to come with you.”

Dean frowns, shaking his head, “you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do know. I know that Pontiac has nothing for me anymore, and I know what I want.” Castiel presses his palm fully against Dean’s shoulder. The hunter shudders slightly and leans into the touch. “I _want_ to be with you, Dean.”

Dean lets his eyes flutter closed and nods jerkily, swiping his tongue out to wet his lips.

“You know… I could be turned in again. Some day, they might throw me back in jail.”

“And we will get you out again.”

Dean stares up at him in disbelief, eyes wet and moving restlessly around Castiel’s face.

“Okay,” he whispers brokenly, and smiles softly, though his eyes are still sad and tired.

“Thank you, Dean.”

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

Dean asked Castiel to give him some time to be alone, so he walked back to the motel room and tossed his shoes to the floor, sitting himself down cross legged upon his bed. 

Sam sends him a questioning glance, to which Castiel shrugs and explains, “I decided that I want to come with you both… when you leave here, that is.”

Sam gapes at him, “seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Are you _sure_?”

“I already went over this with Dean. I am absolutely positive.”

Sam slowly begins to smile, nodding his approval. After a moment he asks, “where’d he go, anyway?”

“The docks.”

“Can I ask you something?” Sam asks, very abruptly changing his tone. Castiel feels like he isn’t going to like this question, but he nods anyway, and Sam nods back, seemingly preparing himself to ask. 

Castiel picks at his socks nervously, waiting.

“I know it’s _really_ soon to ask, and you’ve barely known either of us for very long... and I keep asking the same thing, but you seem to care more than a lot of our closest friends do about Dean’s safety, and I just…” Sam sighs, seeming to realize that he was beginning to ramble, and purses his lips. “Do you… _like_ him?”

Castiel frowns at his feet, feeling his stomach twist up dreadfully. This wasn’t unexpected, but he wasn’t prepared either. Though, the answer is sitting right on the tip of his tongue and he knows that Sam would know if he lied. The problem, though, is Dean. Castiel is almost certain that, even if Dean did feel the same, he doesn’t now. So, wether his answer is yes or not, _that_ will not change.

“I think…” Sam raises one brow, staring expectantly at Castiel. “Yes.”

The younger Winchester breaks into a grin and appears to be so excited that he nearly jumps out of his chair. Castiel tries not to let it make him too hopeful.

“But…”

“What? No, no buts.” Sam stands up and briskly moves across the room, sitting on the edge of his own bed, facing Castiel.

“ _But,_ ” Castiel asserts, “Dean doesn’t like me.”

“Are you _kidding_ me?”

“What?” Castiel asks, hurt.

“I’m sorry. But come on, Castiel, you can’t be serious.”

“I _am_.” Castiel glowers at Sam, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh. Okay.” Sam shifts awkwardly and looks towards the door, as if making sure Dean isn’t standing watching before he continues, “I know it seems like he kinda’ hates you sometimes, but trust me… He’s just scared.”

“Scared? Of me?” Castiel laughs humorlessly, shaking his head in disbelief. “How could a man who has been _killing monsters_ all his life be scared of _me_?”

“I don’t mean like that. I mean…” Sam sighs and shakes his head, “I mean that he is afraid of opening himself up to you. I think he’s afraid that if he does, you’ll end up leaving him and he’ll fall apart. Just like he did with our parents. He tries to keep his distance from other people because he can’t handle the idea of losing them. You just gotta’ give him a little time to figure it all out.”

Castiel’s heart aches at the words Sam is pouring out to him. But it makes sense.

“And, personally,” Sam adds after a moment, “I think he’s afraid that people only like him because he’s attractive. He hates being objectified.”

“Do people objectify him often?”

“All the time,” Sam says ruefully. He stands and slaps Castiel’s shoulder kindly, giving him a small smile, and adds, “but I know _you_ wouldn’t do that. Right?”

“Of course not,” Castiel retorts, offended, which only makes Sam’s smile widen.

“Good. ‘Cause, if you do, I have _a lot_ of weapons.”

Castiel gapes at him, and when Sam laughs he realizes that he just received “the big bother talk” - in this case, literally _big_ brother. He’s never been subjected to that before. It’s odd.

“I know you do,” Castiel says, smiling nervously up at Sam, who pats him on the shoulder again and goes to gather his laptop into a bag.

“Just so you know,” Sam starts, glancing up at him briefly, “we’re gonna’ need to be out of here in a few hours. I’d start packing up if I were you.”

Castiel gasps and scrambles to get up off the bed, tripping over the bottom of his pants. Sam laughs at him, and Castiel scowls back, grumbling incoherently as he gathers what little he brought from his apartment.

He is crouched down, reaching under the bed for a stray sock, grunting in frustration, when the door swings open. Dean stops and stares at him. Castiel can feel his eyes on him, and it makes him itch, but he doesn’t dare look up at him. Once he has managed to capture the sock he straightens up and looks between Sam and Dean. Sam is hiding a smile behind his hand and Dean is staring with hazy eyes and slightly parted lips.

“Hey, Dean.” Sam greets, voice colored by amusement. Dean blinks wildly and clears his throat, a slight flush of pink filling his cheeks, and he offers Sam a weak smile before hurrying away to the bathroom. Sam bursts out laughing and hides his face in the crook of his arm.

Castiel decides that it might be a good time to get some fresh air and walks outside to sit on a bench in front of the motel, watching the sun set slowly on the horizon.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

Castiel has lost track of how long he has been sitting outside, and doesn’t realize he is shivering until the door opens, casting a warm light from inside. Dean shakes his head in disdain from the open door, grumbles something that Castiel doesn’t quite catch and peels his jacket off. He frowns and gently drapes his warm leather jacket across Castiel’s shoulders. 

Castiel looks up at him and smiles awkwardly, curling into the jacket’s heat. He hadn’t felt cold, though he knows he was. After all, a dress shirt rolled to his elbows isn’t exactly _warm_. Dean’s hand trails lightly across Castiel’s shoulders as he moves to sit beside him, and Castiel is thankful for the fact that he was _already_ shivering from the cold.

“You’re gonna’ get sick if you sit out here forever,” Dean scolds quietly, clasping his hands between his knees and leaning forward, elbows on his thighs.

“I didn’t intend to stay out here so long,” Castiel mutters, trying hard not to move closer to Dean. He can feel the heat radiating from the hunter, waves of warmth passing between their bodies. It’s terribly inviting.

“Why’d you come out here anyway?”

“Because the sun was setting.” It’s only a half-lie, because he really did want to watch the sun set. It was beautiful; like fire and passion and the beginning of an ending. And he _stayed_ out because the stars were, and are, twinkling brightly in the cloudless sky. But he originally came outside because he wanted to avoid causing another awkward moment. Naturally.

“That’s kinda’ pathetic, Cas.”

Castiel glances over at Dean, finds him smiling softly. Castiel stares at him, wondering how much of what Sam said was true. After some time Dean clears his throat quietly and turns to look up at the sky. Castiel keeps watching him, studying his profile in the dim light of the moon, face illuminated as if there are moonbeams and little stars stuck in his eyelashes. He burns bright but subdued, hunched over on himself. He’s beautiful. 

“Something you should know before you just take off with us,” Dean starts, sighing to the stars. He pauses, gaze falling to his hands, “living like we do isn’t easy. Any day could be your last, and it will seem like everyone’s got a price on your head. Especially since you’d be with _us_.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Lets just say, every pice of shit monster knows the name _Winchester_ by heart.”

“I would think that is a good thing… is it not?” Castiel asks, furrowing his brow. Dean huffs a laugh and shakes his head in amusement.

“No, not really. Some of them are scared of us, and some of them just _really_ want to rip our hearts out and eat ‘em.” Dean glances at Castiel briefly out of the corner of his eye, “and they’ll add you to their shit-list if you _do_ hang around.”

“I don’t care.”

Dean goes rigid and turns to look at Castiel, seemingly surprised. Castiel thinks it’s stupid that Dean would be surprised. After all he has done it seems like the obvious way to go; together. He hasn’t known Dean for even a month, yet he has sacrificed everything he had to help Dean, and if he let Dean go he would be losing _everything_. He would have nothing at all if he didn’t have him.

“You have to be _sure_ , Cas.”

“I am.”

“Alright, then.” Dean smiles softly at Castiel, bumping his arm with his elbow, and stands up abruptly. “You should come finish packing your bags, then.”

Castiel smiles up at him, and Dean smiles back warmly. He raises his hand, hesitates a moment, fingers twitching, then scrubs a hand through Castiel’s hair, mussing it up. Castiel leans into the touch, heart fluttering in his chest, and follows Dean back into the warmth of the motel room.


	7. A Worn Out Sign Which Reads: Please Don't Feed the Moose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea where that chapter name came from… my mind is a mess, guys. Sorry.

The moon hangs up in the deep blue sky, and Castiel sits in the back seat of the Impala by himself. He lays his head against the back of the leather upholstered bench seat and feels surprisingly at home here. He sits listening to Dean hum off tune to AC/DC while Sam snores, sprawled out in the passenger seat. He feels like he is the moon, finally finding his place in the sky among the stars.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

Castiel leans forward some time around midnight, resting his forearms on the back of the front seat, and speaks in a whisper. “Dean… You never told me how you knew my name.”

“What? What are you talking about?” Dean asks, glancing at Castiel from the corners of his eyes. His gaze flickers towards Sam, who is still sleeping soundly, legs stretched out as far as they can be in the small space.

“I mean the first time I came to talk to you in prison. You knew my name, but I never told it to you.”

Dean tenses visibly, pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. “This is gonna’ sound really stupid,” Dean begins, staring out at the road. He shakes his head. “There’s this _psychic_ , Pamela, and she’d said somethin’ about how… How you would come and change everything.”

Castiel stays quiet. He stares at Dean’s profile in the moonlight shining dimly through the windshield as Dean laughs to himself. It's a quiet huff of breath and a flash of bright teeth. Dazzling.

“She said you were like a guardian angel or something.” He glances over at Castiel again, seeming nervous, “weird, right?”

Castiel feels himself smile as he shakes his head, and answers, “no, not really.”

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

Castiel jolts upright in the back seat of the impala. He covers his ears to block out the deafening sound of the radio playing some old rock song. It's loud enough that someone could most likely hear it from a mile away. He throws the door open and clambers out, falling to his knees on the dusty floor of an abandoned parking lot. The music stops abruptly, giving way to the sound of Dean’s hearty laugh from the other side of the car.

Castiel gets up on his feet and glares over the top of the car, “that was rude.”

Beside him, Sam is cupping a hand over his ear and stretching out his jaw, appearing disheveled and grumpy. Dean just keeps laughing at them. He slaps a hand on the roof of the car and leaning forward to press his head against the shining black exterior. Castiel finds that it annoys him how Dean is overplaying his amusement.

“Man, your reactions were priceless,” Dean says through fits of laughter. When he finally calms down he wipes at his teary eyes and looks up to see both Sam and Castiel scowling at him. “Oh, come on, it was funny!”

“It most certainly was not,” Castiel protests. Sam bumps him with his elbow and smirks.

“This just means we get to get back at him.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows and turns to look at Dean, who has stopped smiling and now looks almost as if he is fearing for his life.

“Nuh-uh,” Dean whines, holding his hands out in surrender, “I _do_ _not_ want to start another prank war. Especially now that Cas is involved.”

“What, you afraid he’ll _get’cha_ ’?” Sam taunts with a wide, mischievous grin.

“No,” Dean protests, shooting Sam some secret brother-code look that Castiel can’t comprehend. “No, seriously. I’m more worried that you’d end up accidentally _killing_ him or something.”

Castiel pales and looks up at sam with wide eyes, to which Sam responds by frowning apologetically and says, “I wouldn’t do that. Dean’s just being over-protective.”

“Shut up, bitch,” Dean snaps, tugging at the collar of his jacket self-consciously.

“Jerk,” Sam shoots back, smiling slightly. Castiel thinks that this might be something that they do often. It seems like a sign of how comfortable they are with each other, and he feels left out. 

After a moment of hesitation he takes a deep breath and mutters, “assbutt.”

Dean stares at him in confusion and Sam snickers, hiding it behind his elbow.

“What did you say?” Dean asks, and if Castiel didn’t know better he might think Dean was offended, but his lips twitch with the effort not to laugh.

“I said assbutt.”

“You realize that’s not a real insult, right?” Dean asks, clearly struggling not to laugh. Sam gasps for air and turns his face away, trying to calm himself.

“It is now,” Castiel deadpans, pulling open the door to the back seat, and sits himself down inside, hands in his lap. He hears Dean laugh, and smiles to himself, feeling accomplished.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

Castiel has never been part of a prank war before, but so far it seems like Sam and Dean’s pranks are mostly confined to the two of them. He knows it’s stupid, but he wants a part in it, so he spends quite some time sitting in the back seat brooding. Sam and Dean are too busy arguing to notice, and Castiel is thankful for the distraction.

He figures it out when Sam runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

They’ve stopped at a sleazy motel on the edge Illinois. It's the first time they have actually stopped since leaving Pontiac. Sam had immediately fallen back onto one of the two beds in the room, passing out soon after. 

“Dean,” Castiel starts, nudging Dean’s leg with his socked foot. Dean looks up at him from the newspaper he was scanning at the table. “I need your help with something.”

“Uh, what is it?” He asks, brows drawn together in concern, folds the paper and pushes it away from himself.

“I have an idea to prank Sam, but I don’t feel comfortable doing it on my own.”

A roguish smile spreads across Dean’s face and he leans across the table in interest. Castiel resists the urge to move closer, instead glancing over to where Sam is snoring quietly. His cheek is squished against an overstuffed pillow and his long limbs are half tangled in the stiff motel sheets.

“What is it?” Dean prompts, excited.

“His hair.”

Dean grins and pushes up from the table, pulling Castiel by the arm as he whispers, “you’re a genius.”

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

Sam jolts awake too soon and is left with two small chunks cut out of his hair. Castiel frowns and hides the scissors behind his back, stepping away nervously. He backs into Dean, who discretely takes the cheap scissors from Castiel and tosses them to the trash can. Sam sits upright and stares up at them blearily, suspicious.

“What’d you idiots do?” He mutters sleepily. Castiel shrugs, and behind him Dean pushes a knuckle into his side, trying to get him to react. He stays stoic as ever and Sam watches them both with narrowed eyes.

Dean walks up to him, claps him on the shoulder, “jeez, Sammy, you should shower. You smell like a horses ass, dude.”

“Shut up,” Sam grouses, rubbing at his eyes. He stands up anyway and makes his way to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

“Prepare yourself,” Dean warns in a whisper, “the moose has been unleashed.”

Before Castiel can ask what on earth that means, Sam lets out a loud groan from the other side of the door and Dean bolts for the front door. Castiel is left standing like a deer in headlights when Sam bursts out of the bathroom with wild eyes.

“Was it you?” He asks, pointing a finger at Castiel, who, on instinct, shakes his head and gulps. Sam growls and looks to the open door, immediately running out to chase Dean down. Castiel stands behind, staring at the now empty room, and wonders how much trouble Dean will be in now because of him.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

Dean comes back to the motel room some time later, out of breath and with a bruise blooming on his cheek. But he’s laughing. Moments later Sam follows, chest heaving with each breath he takes. Castiel watches him carefully as he storms over to the bed he had been sleeping on and falls over face first.

Sam mumbles something into the mattress that Castiel can’t understand and pulls the blankets over his head.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks, carefully approaching Dean, who is sitting on the floor, poking at his new bruise. He looks up at Castiel and smiles.

“Yeah, just a little bruise.”

Castiel crouches down and frowns, reaches out gingerly to examine Dean’s face. He finds that there is a small cut in the center of the bruise. “You may want to clean this.”

“What are you, a doctor?” Dean teases, gently pushing Castiel’s hand away.

“No, it’s just common sense.” Castiel glances over at Sam, “assuming it was Sam’s fist that gave you that, you will definitely want to clean it.”

Dean raises a brow in confusion and Castiel leans in a little closer to whisper, “I don’t think he washes his hands.”

Dean is silent for a moment, just staring at Castiel, before his lips twitch and he lets out a choked laugh. He slaps a hand over his mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound. Castiel smiles and sits back on his heels, watching as Dean curls up on himself in an attempt to stay quiet. Sam stirs on the bed and Dean starts laughing harder. Castiel doesn’t even understand why Dean found that so funny, he was only making an observation.

“Shut up, Dean. Jesus,” Sam mumbles, throwing the blankets off of himself to glare at them both. He scrubs a hand across his face and asks, “what’s so damn funny, anyway?”

Dean only laughs harder.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

Dean offers to take the couch that night. Castiel wants more than anything to simply say they can share the other bed that Sam isn’t already sprawled out on. But he thinks that might only cause trouble. So when Castiel wakes up he finds Dean laying with one arm over the edge of the couch and one leg pulled up onto the back. He is sprawled out like he needs to take up as much space as possible.

Sam wakes soon after Castiel does. After pulling a hat over his hair he leaves without a word, returning twenty minutes later with a plastic bag. He puts his finger to his lips and crouches down by Dean’s side, pulling out a makeup kit. Castiel watches as Sam carefully applies the makeup to Dean’s face with a steady hand. When he is finished, Sam stands up and hands a small mirror to Castiel, smiling wickedly. Castiel frowns at him and moments later Sam slams the door to the motel, causing Dean to jolt upright.

He groans and sits up, rubbing at his eyes.

“What the hell happened to you, Dean?” Sam asks, exaggeratedly innocent. Dean scowls at him as Castiel hands him the mirror, frowning nervously. Dean stares at his reflection in horror, eyes wide, and delicately touches the pads of his fingers to his face.

“The fu- I’m a painted whore!” Dean whines, glaring at Castiel. Sam clears his throat to indicate that it wasn’t Castiel’s doing and Dean turns his glare to him instead.

“I’m not done with you, Dean,” Sam states ominously. Castiel shivers in fear, and tenses when Dean swipes at his face and points a finger in his direction.

“What about him?”

“Oh, so you teamed up on me?” Sam turns his eyes to Castiel, still smiling cruelly. “In that case, I’m going to go fix my hair and come up with something for both of you.”

He stands and stalks into the bathroom. Dean grumbles wordlessly and goes to the sink in the kitchenette, washing the makeup from his face. Castiel locates a small towel and hands it to him without saying a word, watching as he dabs his face dry.

“How bad will it be?” Castiel asks, and Dean frowns down at the towel.

“Horrible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That probably turned out really bad… crap, I'm sorry. It'll seem less stupid later (hopefully)  
> It's almost over!  
> Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up, I've been really busy, extremely stressed, and horribly depressed lately. And to add insult to injury, I just fucked up my dad's car today :(  
> Sorry, I'll shut up now.  
> Also, I am very sorry for tormenting poor Sam. He'll get his revenge, though, don't worry ;)  
> Comments are welcomed, though. If you have any criticism, compliments, or ANYTHING... I wanna' hear from you guys!


	8. Once Upon a Time, In a Cheap Motel Room...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept thinking that maybe if I stared at this long enough it would suddenly be amazing, but it's not. Anyway… this is basically just crack at this point. I just hope you all enjoy the ending!

The biggest priority at the moment is _not_ to kill monsters, like Castiel had expected. Instead they decided to go and get as far from Pontiac as they can as quick as possible. So Dean announces that they are going to Sioux Falls to visit Bobby. The drive is long - though Dean speeds his way down every road - and Castiel and Dean spend most of their time tense in anticipation of what ever master plan Sam has come up with. After two days Castiel is starting to think that maybe Sam isn’t going to do anything after all. That is when he makes the mistake of letting his guard down.

They have stopped at a motel half way between Illinois and Sioux Falls. It's a run down little place with floral wallpaper colored a sickening shade of pink and tan carpet matted with dirt. Sam goes out on a snack run and comes back, setting a package of creme filled cookies on the table.

Castiel reaches out to grab one and Dean gives him a wary look, but says nothing as he puts it in his mouth. He grimaces at the taste. It’s gritty and tastes of mint, which Castiel knows is not right. He spits it out into the trash and Dean shakes his head in reproach.

“Toothpaste.”

Castiel sighs at his own stupidity and ignores Sam’s quiet snickering from across the room. He dumps the package in the trash can.

“That was just childish,” Castiel mutters under his breath, falling back in the chair across from Dean.

“I’m still not done with you,” Sam announces with a smirk. Castiel and Dean groan simultaneously and Castiel is starting to think maybe he didn’t want a part in this after all.

The next morning the three of them are sitting around the motel's table eating a breakfast of crudely made pancakes. Dean reaches across the table to take the syrup bottle, and Castiel can see the sparkle in Sam's eye. As Dean upturns the bottle, the cap falls off and the syrup spills out. His pancakes are swimming in sticky brown syrup by the time he manages to react and pull the bottle away from his plate. He glares at Sam, but eats the soaked food seemingly just to spite him.

 

∆•∆•∆•∆

 

That night they move on to a new motel that Dean promises they will only have to stay in for the night so they can get some sleep. Sam insists that he stay while Dean and Castiel go get food. When they bring it back they are surprised to find that the place looks exactly the same as it had before. The curtains are dusty and so thick they block out any light from outside, hung up against the horrid shade of yellow on the walls. The carpet beneath their feet is dense and grungy, obviously uncleaned for some time. The lights flicker every few minutes and there is a hole in the bathroom door that looks suspiciously like a bullet hole.

As soon as they get into the room Dean scopes out the bathroom, returns with a frown and says they will have to stay out of that particular room. Castiel is certain that Dean knows what he's talking about, and of course listening to him would be best, but his curiosity trumps his trust, as is the way of a journalist. He pushes past the door, aware of Dean's wary gaze upon his back, and peers into the dingy room. A suspicious, dull pinkish blob stains the shower floor, and the color is smattered across the grout of the linoleum as well. He closes the door and concedes that they refrain from using the bathroom here, for obvious reasons. 

It’s Castiel’s turn to sleep on the couch tonight, but Sam is clearly hiding a smile. Castiel doesn’t know why, but he thinks it might have something to do with the faded green couch. Dean is laying lengthwise on his bed, on his stomach, watching with one eyebrow raised and a small frown on his face. Castiel tries to ignore them both and drags a stiff blanket over to the couch, sits down on it, and is immediately engulfed.

He shouts and tries to wiggle free, but his legs are pulled up to his chest and he is stuck in the frame of the couch. Dean rolls from his bed and tells him to stop complaining as he pulls him out. He helps Castiel up to his feet, and begins swiping away the layer of dust that has settled over his clothes. Sam sits on his bed laughing.

“How did you even do that?” Castiel asks, peering over Dean’s shoulder at Sam, who is grinning like a child on a sugar high.

“I’m not telling you,” he singsongs, then falls serious as he says, “but I’m not quite done yet.”

Castiel groans and Dean pats his cheek sympathetically.

“What am I supposed to do now?” Castiel asks, indicating the broken couch. Sam’s smile widens and he looks pointedly at Dean, who doesn’t seem to be catching on. Castiel understands all too well what Sam is doing. After a moment Dean whirls on his brother and scowls at him.

“Seriously, Sam?”

“What?”

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you? _This_ is your prank, isn’t it?” Castiel can’t help that his heart sinks at how upset Dean sounds.

“Maybe,” Sam smirks.

“Of course it is,” Dean mutters, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. Castiel sighs and lays the blanket he’d had earlier out on the musty carpet. Dean turns and furrows his brow at him, “what are you doing?”

“I am going to sleep on the flo-” Castiel stops abruptly when Dean spins him around by his arm and pulls him towards the bed.

“No, Cas. That’s not happening.” Castiel’s pulse skyrockets and he feels a little dizzy, but he doesn’t move except to go where Dean shoves him. Eventually he finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’ll screw up your back,” Dean mutters, his face reddening slightly.

This, of all the ways Dean could have reacted, was one of the last things Castiel had expected. The anger and over-protective attitude, sure, that’s typical, but blushing? Not quite what Castiel expected.

Dean looks positively mortified as he crawls up onto the bed and shifts to get under the blankets. Castiel starts to stand, about to tell Dean that he doesn’t need to worry, but Dean catches him by the wrist and whispers, “Cas, _seriously_.”

Castiel glances to Sam, who has his eyebrows raised as if to say “don’t be stupid.”

He sighs and relents, sliding into the small space beside Dean.

“Goodnight,” Sam says, and beneath the innocent word, Castiel hears the smirk. And then the room goes dark with a click of the lamp switch.

Castiel lays stiff and awkward at Dean’s side, breathing slowly to keep as quiet as possible. After some incomprehensible amount of time, Dean shifts, turning over onto his side to face Castiel. The room is too dark to make out Dean’s expression, even when Castiel turns to face him.

Castiel waits, expecting Dean to say something, but he doesn’t say a word. His breath ghosts hot over Castiel’s lips, and a flash of heat shoots through him, causing his breath to catch in his throat.

Even in the dark he can see Dean’s little, toothy, nervous smile.

“You alright?” Dean whispers, sending a puff of breath across Castiel’s face. It smells like cinnamon toothpaste. Castiel nods, unable to speak, and he sees Dean’s mouth turn down into a frown.

“I’m sorry.”

“For?” Castiel whispers back, eyes fixed on Dean’s mouth. Dean doesn’t answer for a long moment, and Castiel flits his eyes up to look into Dean’s. He looks conflicted, confused even. “Dean?”

“I’m just sorry,” Dean whispers brokenly, looking away. Castiel pulls his arm free of the blanket and reaches out to touch Dean’s cheek gently, prompting him to meet his eye.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Castiel tells him, and Dean tilts his cheek up, pressing closer to Castiel’s warm palm. “If you’re feeling guilty for my being here, you should not be. I want to spend my life in cheap motel rooms, with you and Sam, here.”

Dean shakes his head and closes his eyes.

“You are my home now, Dean. I’m not missing anything by being here.”

Dean peers at him through heavy eyelids, eyes shimmering in the soft light of the streetlamp cast through the window. Castiel stares back at him, silent and still, and he swears Dean is moving closer, so very slowly; painfully slow.

A quiet sniffle sounds from the other bed and they both tense immediately. Castiel takes his hand back, and Dean slowly gets up on one elbow to look over at Sam.

“Are you _crying_?” He asks, incredulous and louder than they’d been talking previously. Castiel stares blankly at Dean’s cotton covered chest, waiting and listening for a response. Sam sniffles again and Castiel hears the shuffling of his blankets as he turns over.

“That was so sweet…” Sam mutters stuffily. Castiel stifles a laugh as Dean flops back down on the bed. Castiel catches him rolling his eyes and smacks him on the arm for it. Dean yelps quietly and Castiel laughs into the pillow when Sam asks, “what are you _doing_ over there?”

“Get your head out of the gutter, Sammy,” Dean chides, but he is smiling still.

Sam makes a series of noises that Castiel assumes are supposed to be an imitation of Dean’s voice, then rolls back onto his side and says a terse “goodnight.”

Castiel and Dean sit in silence, staring at each other until Sam’s breathing evens out. Then Dean half-smiles and whispers, “you can’t say stuff like that in front of Sam or he’ll turn into a giant girl about it.”

Castiel nods in understanding and apologizes quietly. As he is falling asleep, Dean smiles at him, and Castiel asks, “Dean, can I ask you something?”

“What?”

Castiel takes a deep breath and searches Dean’s eyes, hoping to find that same “spark” that Sam had mentioned before. The longer he waits the less likely it seems that he will find it, so he sighs and shakes his head, turning his gaze down. His eyes are automatically drawn to Dean’s lips, and he watches as he purses them, wets them, and then when they move.

“Cas, hey,” Dean prompts quietly, pressing two fingers under his chin to get him to look up, “what is it?”

Castiel subconsciously licks his lips, and Dean’s eyes follow the motion. That’s all Castiel needs. He surges forward, pressing their mouths together. At first Dean is still, frozen and stunned, and Castiel worries that he has made a mistake. But he quickly relaxes into it, sliding his hand from Castiel’s chin to cup his jaw gently, bringing them closer. Castiel’s hand finds Dean’s waist and brings them closer still. They abruptly break for air, gasping quietly in the small space between them. They lay with their foreheads pressed together and their eyes closed. They are breathless; less from spending too much time without air, and more from spending too much time dancing around this moment. Now, after almost a month of tension and fleeting touches and pounding heartbeats, it hits them with the force of a ton of bricks to the head.

“Please tell me you don’t regret that,” Dean whispers, slightly flushed and breathless. He slides his fingers into the hair at the base of Castiel’s neck.

“Of course not.”

Dean smiles and presses another chaste kiss to Castiel’s lips.

“ _Now_ I’m done with you two idiots,” Sam mutters sleepily from the other bed. Dean groans and Castiel silences him with his mouth, pressing his thumb into Dean’s side, holding on like if he lets go he might float away. Sam laughs and Dean kisses Castiel a little harder, sending a flurry of butterflies into Castiel’s stomach.

“This might be your best prank yet, Sammy,” Dean mutters between shallow breaths, tracing his thumb across Castiel’s bottom lip. Castiel sighs and lets Dean pull him in closer, resting his forehead against Dean’s chest.

“Hmm, I tried _real_ hard this time.” Sam mumbles, clearly half-asleep. 

Dean hums quietly and it reverberates in his chest, tickling Castiel’s face. He tips his head down to press a lingering kiss to the top of Castiel’s head; a kiss that makes him shiver and curl into Dean’s embrace.

On the precipice of sleep, Dean mumbles into Castiel’s hair, “Pamela never said anything about _this_.”

“She _definitely_ _did_ , Dean,” Sam mutters, and in response Dean simply shakes his head.

Castiel smirks in amusement and presses the side of his face to Dean’s chest, listening to the other man’s heart beating. “I’d like to meet Pamela,” Castiel says around a yawn.

“Yeah, okay. We can do that,” Dean mutters, stroking his thumb across Castiel’s bicep, and sighs quietly.

As they drift off to sleep, Castiel realizes that this moment, here in Dean’s arms, is only the beginning of his story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it. The end.  
> Thank you, thank you all, thank you to no end; for reading, commenting, kudo-ing, and bookmarking this. You kept me going, and now it's done! What a relief. I hope you all enjoyed it!  
> Comments are still welcome, I'd love some feedback :)


End file.
